


Can You Imagine?

by littlelamblittlelamb



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Achilles kisses him anyway (no sexual content), M/M, Patroclus is a dead body at this stage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3697610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelamblittlelamb/pseuds/littlelamblittlelamb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Now imagine that you, the strongest man you have ever heard legend of, sent Patroclus – who did not fight or quarrel or rage – into a battle. Imagine that you, who can kill a dozen of Troy’s strongest in a single battle, had one person to protect of any value, and you sent them to die. Over nothing real. Can you imagine?”</p>
<p>Automedon shakes his head. “I am sorry, Achilles. He was so brave-”</p>
<p>“If this was you, who would you be most angry at?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You Imagine?

Automedon has finished weeping, but does not drop Patroclus’s hand. Achilles rests on the ground opposite, gliding his hand across Patroclus’s cold flesh. There is noise muffled on the outside of the tent, but there is little of it. Those who surround Achilles have heard his roars and howls of agony, and stay quiet or absent. There is a fog whirling through his mind, he knows – friends appear enemies and all is confused – but he feels something come to his throat and speaks in what voice he has left.

“You need not worry; I do not blame you for his death. He was brave – too much so. Hector is the one, and I will have him dead.” It comes out hoarse. It is as though nails have torn down through his windpipe. Breathing is almost too much.

“You are angry at Hector?” Automedon asks. He does not look at Achilles, but keeps his eyes pinned to Patroclus’s sleeping form. “We fight a war, Pelides. I would ask you if you are at risk of being consumed by grief. I ask you if you might consider grieving appropriately before you return to fight. We will not miss you for a week – or three, perhaps. No one would question it.” There is a tinge in the words, and it cuts Achilles like a knife. Automedon had never blamed himself.

The traces of youth have never left Automedon’s face. The emotions flash pass through his eyes almost against his will, and Achilles does not begrudge him that. He may keep his words locked carefully away, but his face is honest, even if not always kind. No, Achilles is without doubt, Automedon blames someone else entirely.

Achilles lifts his eyes – red, bloodshot and startlingly afraid. “Imagine, Automedon,” he rasps, “Imagine you are the strongest man in all of Greece – and beyond. No one comes close. Imagine knowing you could hold off twenty men at once, with ease. It would be fun, even. No one has ever denied you a thing – and then, for the first time, they do. A pretty girl.” Achilles laughs. He does not wish to see Briseis. He does not care if he never sees her face again. Her pretty eyes will be far more accusatory than Automedon’s. He does not need guilt – he feasts on his own rage. “And you are the strongest and the fastest and can do anything you like, but you are trapped by their politics and games, and you cannot get her back. All you have is your honour, and they would take it from you.

“You think they have taken everything, so you stop fighting for them. You tell all of this to the one who listens and they nod and sooth, and then beg and plea for you to fight. Because your whole world is your pride, but theirs has something more gentle. You are so set on your own schemes that you do not realise that it is the sun who speaks to you. If you look at the ground, it is possible to forget that all that is beautiful – even if it is little at the time – is lit by one. You do not realise that if they were to dampen or extinguish entirely, the beautiful things would be cast into darkness. It does not occur to you, and that’s a funny thing.” There is a sheet over Patroclus’s mutilated stomach. Perhaps it will be sewn up. Achilles touches the dead thing’s lips every so often, though they are ice cold. He kisses them, when there is no one to see. Sometimes his kisses them anyway.

“Now imagine that you, the strongest man you have ever heard legend of, sent Patroclus – who did not fight or quarrel or rage – into a battle. Imagine that you, who can kill a dozen of Troy’s strongest in a single battle, had one person to protect of any value, and you sent them to die. Over nothing real. Can you imagine?”

Automedon shakes his head. “I am sorry, Achilles. He was so brave-”

“If this was you, who would you be most angry at?” He lets the question sit a moment, then, “But do not worry, Automedon. My death will be seen to soon enough. For now, there is distraction to be found in Hector.”

Automedon swallows. “We all grieve, Prince Achilles.”

“He was a prince too, once. Did you know?”

“I did. He told me once that he prefers to walk in the shadow you cast than sit idle in the one his father hid him away in,” replies Automedon. The mention of Patroclus’s father takes Achilles back, for a moment. To an olive grove and a sandy shore and the bank of the river on Mount Pelion. Patroclus spoke of him gently and with uncertainty. It was his way of speaking, more so than the words he spoke, that made Achilles certain that he hated Patroclus’s father in everything but his son. As a child he had known it was wrong, so he had never said it aloud, but he was glad Patroclus had shamed himself. That he came to Phthia is all that matters, he thinks. They were born then.

“The sun cannot fall into the shadows,” mutters Achilles. Something is lit within him. “Did you not hear me? He is the sun, and the sun cannot bathe in shadows – it radiates light.” Patroclus’s eyes are closed. Sometimes Achilles forces his eyelids up to see his eyes – he is afraid of losing the colour. His face is in pain, though. Nothing soothes the pain he is in. Achilles grapples with his cheeks and lips, holds his face in both hands and fondles the flesh. Automedon can scarcely look.

“One sees those around them, never themselves,” is all he can think to say.

“Patroclus,” Achilles breathes. It is a plea. Achilles shudders. “Patroclus, I cannot see anymore. There is no light in the world and I cannot see – if you would return, if I could have you again, I would understand.” He kisses the dead mouth long and hard and with all the passion warm lips can pass to cold ones. It is strange to see, and Automedon’s stomach drops at the sight. Achilles turns to the younger man. “He was so alone.”

“I’m sorry, Achilles.”

Achilles does not seem to hear. His eyes are fixed on Patroclus. He leans his lips to the body’s ear. “I didn’t understand, Patroclus. I – I didn’t think. I should have thought, but I didn’t. If this could be a dream, I would know better, if I could wake. Wake up, Patroclus, or wake me up. Let this not be real. Let one of us be sleeping and nothing more. Patroclus, Patroclus…”

Automedon places his hand on Achilles’s shoulder as he leaves. Achilles merely murmurs into Patroclus, weeping. Outside his tent, he hears the lion roar. Most know it is for Hector. Automedon knows the sound too – it is the sound of a man carving his heart from his chest.

 


End file.
